2. Bad Girl

I would have been ten when there took place one of the events that I find so hard to describe dispassionately here.

My Mother's family had always felt disgraced by the circumstances of her marriage, and she was effectively estranged from them. Father would most certainly not have been a welcomed guest in their cramped little apartment in Chai Wan. I only went there once, I think, as a toddler, but I have no way of being sure. Anyway, I worked out later that my maternal Grandfather was dying and my Mother had gone back to make peace before he passed away. So she was away for a few days.

During her absence, my Father had arranged for some of his friends or business associates to come over for an evening of cards or the like, and I was told to stay in my room. Years of living in Hong Kong had seen him succumb to the Chinese addiction to gambling - this weakness would resurface later to influence my life even more dramatically.

They were making a fair old din and obviously the scotch was flowing freely and as I couldn't sleep, I foolishly decided to get up and wander along the corridor to spy on them. After all, what did men do when they got together for a party? My Father wasn�t normally given to laughing out loud and yet I could distinctly hear his Scottish roar and just had to see the unusual phenomenon for myself.

I would have got away with it if it hadn't been for one of the guests, who had chosen that precise moment to return from the downstairs bathroom. He found me, pressed against the wall behind a column in the lobby. It amused him greatly to prise me out of hiding and usher me into the drawing room. 'We have an unexpected guest,' he laughed and pushed me into the centre of the thick blue smoke. From around the green baize tablecloth, half a dozen pairs of eyes zoomed in on me, all chuckling at the scrawny little kid in the short white nightdress, blinking sleepily and pushing strands of her uncontrollable black bob-cut off her forehead.

All the men were highly amused, except one. Father.

I wanted the parquet floor to give way and swallow me up. My heart stopped beating. I prayed he would keep calm, send me to bed and deal with me in the morning. I was quite pragmatic: if he beat me then, I would have deserved it. All my own stupid fault.

But he had a different plan. He was too incensed at my disobedience, my embarrassing him in front of his friends, disturbing his night with his chums. Ignoring his guests, he stormed across the room, shouting drunken abuse at me. 'Who is being an embarrassment now?' I remember thinking, insolently. Perhaps he could read my mind: he was out of control. The cloud of whisky breath surrounded me and I was taken by surprise when he quite literally tore my thin nightie from collar to hem and ripped it from me. I was still in shock when he picked me up and (I think) threw me bodily across the room, into one of the big sofas by the fireplace. Next, I could hear a metallic clanking and for an appalling moment, thought he was going to strike me with the ornamental brass poker.

Thank Christ he didn't or perhaps I would not be writing this now, but he did set about me with something indescribably painful - an antique tooled leather fly whisk which was also kept in the brass shellcase by the fire, and in a frenzy that just went on and on, thrashed my naked legs and back and bottom as I writhed about, screaming my apologies and begging him to stop.

And as suddenly as it began, it was over. He was sitting back at the table, holding his cards, making a quip to break the stunned silence. There was some nervous laughter, the chinking of bottle against glass, a whiff of freshly-lit cigar.

I lay, curled in a ball, pressing myself into the settee. I dared not do anything else to attract attention. My skin was bubbling with pain. From head to toe. I bit so hard into my forearm that my teeth broke the skin, but I had to cry silently. I squeezed my eyes shut, pushing my head against a cushion, and then pulling it hard down over my head, to shut out the sound of the men's card game. I was too scared to think. All I wanted to do was to slink away, unnoticed, to the safety of my room. As the agony gradually subsided, I steeled myself to do it.

"Get over here, girl!" slurred my Father, when he noticed my moving. Years of conditioning had me on my feet instantly and despite the toe-curling shame of being naked in front of these grinning men, I raced to him.

He held an empty whisky bottle towards me.

"As you decided to invite yourself, you little bitch, make yourself bloody useful and get another of these from the pantry."

I did, as fast as I could, anxious to curry favour.

"Go round the table and top up the glasses," he ordered. And I did, burning with embarrassment as I squeezed my little body between the large men, stretching to pour a shaky measure into each glass.

Then a hand slipped up between my thighs.

I froze. What was I to do? I daren't disobey my Father. I chose to ignore it, to hurry around to the next man. I recognized the man who had stroked me - he was a frequent visitor to the house. He didn't even look at me.

After I had poured the drinks, my Father told me to stand in the corner - he would call me when I was needed.

It was terrible. Standing self-consciously as the men drank and played. One or two would shoot me the occasional glance and mutter something: the man who had touched me and the big, sweaty foreigner at the head of the table. From the way the others deferred to him, I presumed he was someone important. There were always important strangers visiting my Father, I had no idea who they were, except that as many of our neighbours were consular or diplomatic staff, many were from countries other than England.

When the game paused for a comfort break, and the big sweaty man came over to me, I was extra nervous. My Father would not want me to be ungracious. He stood, his great bulk blocking out the room, looking me up and down with a sickly smirk. I pressed my hand harder over my exposed crotch in embarrassment.

When the game resumed and the cards were being dealt, the fat man beckoned to me.

"Here, girl. Come bring me luck."

I glanced at my Father. His blank expression I took to be tacit permission and I scampered to the top of the table and stood a coy distance from the man. Nobody else seemed to pay much attention when he reached out and pulled me by the wrist until I was standing right against his huge thigh. Nobody saw when his hand slipped from under the baize and settled on my raw bottom, nor when he stroked my buttocks. Or when his fingers pushed my buttocks apart. I was petrified. Nobody had ever touched me in any way like this. I had no idea what to do, although I had a sense that what he was doing was not very polite. His fat fingers forced my thighs apart and whilst he played his cards, he stroked the softness at the top of my thighs. I looked at my Father. What should I do? I needed to know, but he was too busy studying his cards and exchanging banter with the other men.

I jumped when his fingers reached my private parts. I turned to face fat man. He laid down his cards and muttered 'Fold' and the rest of the table concentrated on their game. I looked right into his piggy eyes. He stared straight back and as his lips curled into the hint of a smile, his fingers aped the action, curving up below the green cloth, pushing my labia apart. My mouth fell open, but I couldn't make a sound. I shot another look at my Father, but nothing would take his attention from the cards. The man smirked deliberately and I could feel his fingers slowly squirming across my vulva. This was surely not right, was it? He licked his lips and I gasped in surprise as the tip of his finger pushed firmly at my vagina. No. This wasn't at all right. My Father was still engrossed. I looked pleadingly at fat man, and when he observed my growing discomfort, his face formed into a horrid, cold, mocking smirk. My lower lip began to tremble and there was a flash of heat across my face as the tears welled in my eyes.

Fat man pulled his hand away and chuckled silently. He tapped my bottom playfully and gave me a gentle shove.

"Alistair," he called to my Father. "I'm afraid she didn't bring me luck after all. Perhaps she should go to bed now?"

My Father nodded and glared his dismissal at me. Never had I been so keen to close my bedroom door behind me.

Then the tears really flowed. I was hurt, deeply shamed and thoroughly confused. Why had that man done that bad thing to me? I felt dirty.

But to this day, the memory that haunts me most is recalling how later, as I sobbed myself to sleep, I had the most overwhelming sense of guilt. Not for what had happened under the table, but how I felt about it. For just a few moments, when the man had his hand up between my legs, I had experienced a really weird and rather nice tingling in the pit of my stomach. An entirely new, bewildering feeling, which I momentarily enjoyed. Even then, I am ashamed to admit, I understood that I got a little kick out of being at the mercy of this predator, and being powerless to stop him invading my body. Now that had to be bad, didn't it?

I banished my dirty thoughts and resumed my childhood.

Puberty beckoned.

For the most part, I wasn't conscious of growing up. Although I had an awareness of my own body that seemed to creep up on me. It would surprise me, looking in the mirror, to see that in certain light, there was just the suggestion of a shadow under my nipples. I would twist and turn, contorting to produce the angle that best allowed me to fancy I had proper boobs. Even at that young age, I laughed at my conceit, and concluded that my ridiculously thin layer of chest padding was best kept to myself.

So it was all the more mortifying when one afternoon (I must have been just ten at the time), after my Father had determined my bum needed half a dozen strokes from his belt to remind me not to leave my room untidy, and I was forbidden to get dressed until bedtime, that I found myself in the hall as the front doorbell chimed. Audrey was not around and my Mother called down the stairs for me to answer it. She wouldn't have realised I was naked, as Father insisted.

The bell rang again and she yelled again crossly, and I knew my Father was upstairs and I really didn't want to upset him any more. I pulled the door open and peered around. It was one of the couriers from my Father's work. With a large carton.

The driver, a young Chinese in a peaked cap, kept asking to bring the box inside. He had to deliver it to Mr Lee's house and he couldn't leave it on the step: it contained important papers, apparently, for the urgent attention of my Father. I had no choice but to pull the door open and let him in. He was so shocked to see me naked, he almost dropped the parcel. I stood aside awkwardly, and my hands and arms tried unsuccessfully to cover my crotch and chest. And I really couldn't turn away, or else he would see the redness on my buttocks, and know how bad I'd been.

He put the package on the hall table and as he left, he studied me slowly with an insolent smirk.

I fail to see why, but he insisted I write my name on his clipboard - I think it was just a rouse to make me lift my hands.

"Nice tits, Miss," he whispered and shot out of the door, giggling to himself.

I could have died.

The incident served to make me even more self-aware. I found it oddly intriguing that grown men took an interest in my childish body, even if I was far from comfortable with that knowledge. It was not that long before I came to learn how that interest could be manifest in a much more tangible fashion.

I had grown up with Gordon and Timothy Lam, although neither sets of parents actively encouraged us to spend time together. The subtleties of relations between upstairs and downstairs meant nothing to us, as kids, and so inevitably we did see a lot of each other, and I was in awe of them both, with their fascinating teenage awareness of everything that was cool and fashionable. Even if they were silly boys. Gordon would have been about fifteen, his brother two years younger, when it happened.

A warm, dry December day in 1978, I would calculate, which put me at ten-and-a-half-years-old. It must have been the beginning of the school holidays for we were all home, but my parents were out. A water fight in the garden, and for once, I have a good recall of that day. Jin had left the sprinkler running. As I came into the garden from a cycle ride round the neighbourhood, the boys ambushed me and turned the hose on me. It was all playful, although my shorts and vest were soaked and I chased after them.

It was just the usual rough and tumble that we had done ever since I can remember, until the point when Gordon ended up straddling me on the grass, tickling me. His fingers strayed and he put his hand inside my loose vest, over my breast. We froze, as if realising this was more than just larking about. I giggled, not knowing what to do. Gordon lifted my vest and I lay still, excited, as he put his hands on my chest. Timothy watched, amazed. Was this what older boys and girls did? I was excited and privately pleased that a teenage boy was doing this to me.

This was all so new. Until then, my world had revolved around school and games and ponies and my bike and my friends around Kowloon: boys had never featured, except as crass objects to be avoided both socially and in the classroom.

With a quick check that nobody was watching, Gordon whispered conspiratorially that we should all go to the 'toolshed', which had always been our refuge from the grown-ups. it was in fact a large room under the villa, where Jin kept his gardening equipment and had his workshop. Bubbling with anticipation, we crept inside.

Timothy was happy to stand and watch. I stood still, waiting for Gordon to take the lead - he would know what to do. He pulled up my wet vest again and stroked my flat little chest. My heart was pounding. Emboldened by my acquiescence, Gordon's fingers moved down to my shorts. I said and did nothing - what was he going to do? There was an electric hush in the room; I could almost hear my own breathing. My soaked shorts slipped to the floor. Gordon crouched in front of me, smiling confidently, checking my reaction as he reached under the elastic of my knickers.

That funny, warm, tingly feeling came back - the one I had briefly felt when the fat man felt me up at the card table that night. Only this was much nicer. Gordon's fingers were so tentative, I could almost feel them trembling. Now I thought I knew what a man did to a woman when they were in love, how he touched between her legs. I felt very grown up. And aroused, though I hardly realised what that entailed. I moved my legs wider apart to make it easier for him to feel me and it felt even better.

Then, just as Gordon was gaining in confidence, and his finger was pressing between my expectant labia, Timothy blurted that Jin was coming and we all panicked. I rushed to pull on my wet clothes and we made it out of the cellar and round the corner before the boy's Father reached the door. A close call, but I felt horribly cheated.

Unsurprisingly, the brothers were quite keen to do it again. And so was I.

Two days later, we were back in the toolshed. Although the spontaneity was missing, the air of guilty excitement was if anything thicker than before. The brothers must have been working out their strategy, as there was a blanket laid out in the furthest corner, and a bottle of Coke. We chatted and joked and then came the pregnant pause when we knew what must happen next. This time it was different. Gordon took my hand and pressed it to the crotch of his shorts. Of course I was aware of the basics of male anatomy but hitherto it had never been of any interest whatsoever. But now, I was desperate to learn.

I was astounded when I touched his cock. It was larger then I would have imagined - surely boys weren't all like that? He showed me how to hold it between my finger and thumb and I was terrified of hurting him when I began to move my hand up and down along it, like he told me. His face certainly looked as if he was in pain.

Gordon asked me to take off my dress. I can remember feeling strangely disappointed, as if I had wanted to feel his hands undressing me. I ripped it over my head. I could hardly take my eyes off his penis, which had grown even stiffer and harder when I had rubbed it. He pulled down my pants and it was good. He was going to touch me. Even Timothy was involved now - he had moved closer and had pushed his shorts down and had his own small yet rigid cock firmly grasped in his fist. I knew this had to be naughty - because it was so much fun.

Much more confidently than the first time, Gordon ran his cool hands all over my bottom and my thighs, then began to explore between my legs. He suggested I lay on the blanket and I stared up at him, trusting but motionless with excitement, whilst he pushed my legs wide apart and parted my cunny with his fingertips.

He knelt between my knees and I watched, fascinated, at the way he massaged the shaft of his penis with his other hand. When he lay down on top of me, I was worried briefly, but all he did was press his cock into the crack of my pussy and move his body up and down over me. It was thrilling, having this handsome teenager tower over me, to feel the warmth of his body on mine, especially the aching tease of his dick pushing down hard into my slit as he slid over me.

He groaned and looked away sheepishly and suddenly I became aware of wetness on the skin of my tummy. What had happened? Gordon must have seen my look of panic as he laughed and explained that he had cum, whatever that meant. Timothy laughed too and so did I, not wishing to reveal my ignorance. But I was still mightily puzzled by the patch of sticky stuff smeared all over me, from my belly button to my groin, just beginning to cool on my skin and feel odd. Then Timothy croaked that he was going to cum too, and before I realised what was happening, he spurted his load. Right over my chest! I had a grandstand view: he was holding the end of his thing only inches from my face, for goodness' sake. Now it all became clearer. The snippets of information I had learned about rabbits in science class; incredulous playground gossip; overheard dirty talk from older kids. So that was how boys did it. And that was their stuff that made babies. Amazing!

I was still perplexed by one aspect. What on earth was going to happen to my own body when I grew up? I mean, I understood the mechanics, but I could see no feasible way that something as big as that thing jutting out in front of Gordon would ever fit inside me. Not there. Absolutely not. I must have missed some vital piece of information, and prayed my ignorance wouldn�t be shown up.

There I lay, naked and spreadlegged, flanked by two boys who had just cum on me. Wow. I was grown up now. Some of the girls in my class had talked about kissing and I hadn't been that impressed. But this was the real deal with boys, I thought, smugly. We shared the bottle of Coke. I was Timothy's turn to feel between my legs, but I squeaked when he tried to put his finger inside me and his elder brother rebuked him, telling forcefully that Miss Penny wasn't old enough to do that.

Now that annoyed me. OK so I was ten (eleven in a few months� time, actually), but we were 'doing sex' weren't we? Or my interpretation of it, anyway. I almost felt like storming off to my room, but that would have been childish and I was grown up now. And besides, Gordon's willy, which had gone all soft, was sticking out straight again, and I wanted to see if he would do that �cum� thing again if I rubbed it.

He did. And so, eventually did Timothy, although it made my fingers ache because it took a long time. My front was slick and shiny and the aroma of four deposits of semen was quite strong. Not unpleasant - a fresh smell that reminded me of seaside holidays. I was delighted with myself.

And the boys seemed really pleased with me. I hadn't shown myself up.

All through that Christmas break, we somehow managed to arrange a few minutes of privacy in the toolshed, usually with both the brothers, and I was becoming quite adept at wanking, as the boys called it. But there was then an occasion when only Gordon was around, and I learned a bittersweet lesson. It was dreamy to begin with. There must have been a party going on upstairs (Burns Night, perhaps), as I was in my best frock, and I was over the moon when I slipped away unnoticed and met him in the garden. The fifteen-year-old closed the toolshed door behind us and immediately began to unbutton it. Oh yes - feeling his hands on me as he stripped me; just the two of us. That's what I wanted. I had my very own secret boyfriend! He paused when he discovered I was wearing silk vest and pants, and I can remember his flicker of approval when I, yes I, asked him to take it all off me.

Then as soon as I was buck naked, apart from my customary ankle socks, he pulled me against him (I could detect the firm bulge in his trousers) and put his arms around my back. It was so fabulous, I really did close my eyes and when I opened them, his face was over mine and his lips touched mine and I held my head stiff as he gave me my first real kiss.

To be kissed by a gorgeous teenager!

My dreams were being realised. Since the first time in the shed, I'd discovered the pleasures of masturbation, never before having recognised the significance what sometimes happened naturally on the odd occasion I had spent longer than strictly necessary washing between my legs in the shower. It all made sense now and I knew what felt good. I was at it all the time, in the bathroom, in my bed, and I found that imagining being with Gordon made it feel even better. If this was what happened when you grew up, I wanted the time to fly past.

But this was the real thing, here and now. Proper kissing. He persisted, encouraging me gently until I realised that my lips shouldn't be stiff. I relaxed and our mouths moved together. I loved the way he held me tight and when he adjusted his stance, with one leg slightly in advance of the other, I unconsciously pressed my crotch against it and as we embraced, there was the most wonderful simmering heat between my legs that flared and ebbed each time I moved myself over his thigh.

His tongue slithering between my lips was another surprise in this incredible fortnight of discovery. Our lips were as one; I pushed my naked body hard against him and bore down on his leg. As his tongue filled my mouth, and his warm, soft hands roamed all over my body, it was as if he had total control over me.

And I was happy as Larry. Gosh - I was doing exactly what big girls did!

Then he moved away and had me lie down and as we resumed that wonderful kissing, his finger was stroking my cunny and it felt strange. I was wet. That sometimes happened in bed and had worried me before. Although this time, I had a feeling it was OK. And so was his finger, rubbing between my nether lips and his tongue was in my mouth and I wanted it to go on for ever.

Except that it started to hurt. For as long as I could, I endured the discomfort. Some how the mixture of pain and overwhelming satisfaction was too irresistible to miss. I squeezed my thighs hard, to make him pause and provide temporary respite, but I soon wanted more - it was so thrilling, giving myself over to him, and feeling so deliciously helpless as his hand produced those strong twin sensations in my tummy. But finally, frustratingly, the constant chafing proved just unbearable and I needed him to stop. Finding his fly and unzipping his trousers seemed a clever way of achieving this. It was the first time I had initiated anything like that and Gordon looked at me with excited surprise. This must have suggested the idea to him, for he hugged me and then lifted me gently to my knees. What next, I wondered.

It had never occurred to me that a man might want to put his thing in someone's mouth. Why? I wasn't too sure about it, but Gordon was older and knew what he was doing and so far, I'd enjoyed everything he'd shown me. So I did it, when he asked me.

I had no idea what to expect and having a mouthful of hot, tangy flesh was quite a shock, but once I'd covered it with saliva and my tongue had go the measure of it, it wasn't bad at all. In fact I found it quite delightful. What better way could I have to show Gordon how much I liked him? He was bound to be even more keen to spend time with me.

And he was very happy with me. Between us, we worked out what he liked best, when I should squeeze him against the roof of my mouth, and when I should stop sucking and hold his cock in my hand and lick the big shiny end till it gleamed with my spit. I would strain to look up at him and judge how well I was doing by the size of his smile. There was a slightly sweet taste, and then I was suddenly struck by uncertainty. Was that his stuff in my mouth? There didn't seem much, though - just enough to taste and it was a nice contrast against the raw flavour of his willy. Any minute he would squirt and then what should I do? Should I take his penis out and let it cum on my front, like he usually did? What if he did it when it was still in my mouth? Was that OK? Should I spit it out? That wouldn't be a very polite thing to do, surely. Suddenly I lost confidence. So much for being grown up. I could feel Gordon straining and he grunted, like he did just before he did it. I hoped he would do the right thing, whatever that was, and I wouldn't get it wrong and spoil it.

It almost choked me. I had managed to deal with the constant stream of saliva as my mouth over-watered but there was this warm, thick sensation completely filling my throat and try as I might, I couldn't get my throat muscles to contract. In a blind panic, I choked, convinced I was about to stop breathing. I pushed him away and flung my head to one side, coughing. I distinctly recall a glob of creamy stuff flying out of my mouth and hitting the wall. My mouth was coated in it, sticking to my tongue and I sucked hard to sluice the stuff and force it down, like you did at with the mouthwash at the dentist after you've spat most of it out.

And I felt so ashamed.

What would Gordon think? I so wanted to be grown up, to make him want to be with me, and I had been such an idiot. Such a little girl. I began to cry.

And looking back to that moment, it makes sense, but then it all went terribly wrong. Gordon must have thought he'd gone too far with such a young girl, for he immediately dressed and stood up, burbling stupid apologies that only made it worse, for it was me who should have been sorry. He offered me a hankie, but by then I was so angry with myself, I childishly shoved it away, which of course convinced him I was upset with him and...

We never did it again. Any of it. Both boys distanced themselves, finding excuses not to be around. As for me, I had no way to explain myself, nor was I mature enough to understand why the relationship had suddenly changed. My guilt fought with my disappointment, and I was sad that something had gone so terribly wrong.

I had inexplicably lost two great friends. More than that - my surrogate brothers. I simply couldn�t figure out how I had ruined our relationship.

But unknown to me then, there was one other factor that had driven the Lam boys away. I had absolutely no inkling at the time about what else had happened: a sinister twist of fate that was to change my life dramatically. The boys' Father later took great delight in telling me the details. He knew precisely what I had done with Gordon and had had words with his sons the very next day: warned them off going near me again.

And so it was that dire warning, not my inept fellatio, which had actually caused their very sudden change in attitude. Not that it made any difference in the end.

Next Chapter: 3. Jin